Sivasagar: Across the quiet flow of the Dikhow River amid serene surroundings, a south-bank tributary of the Brahmaputra River in Assam, stands a forgotten marvel—a bridge not just of iron and bolts, but of memory, movement, and mastery. Built in 1935 by the British engineering firm Braithwaite in the Sivasagar district of Assam, this once-lifting bridge speaks stories from a time when even machines were crafted with vision.
Today, its rusted joints groan in silence, and its timbered heart has collapsed into absence. What remains is not just an obsolete structure, but a page from Assam’s industrial and colonial narrative, slowly being torn away by time and neglect.
A bridge beyond steel
The story of the Dikhow Bridge begins with the fall of the Ahom dynasty and the rise of British colonial infrastructure. After the Treaty of Yandabo in 1826, the British East India Company took charge of Upper Assam and soon felt the need to link its tea and coal-producing heartlands to trade routes.
The Assam Trunk Road, slicing through Sivasagar, needed a river crossing at Amguri Ghat, a spot that once relied on ferries. Transportation delays and loss of goods prompted British engineers to envision a bridge, but there was a problem: the Dikhow was still a navigable waterway, with steamboats carrying tea from Nazira to Calcutta.
It was with the primary objective of facilitating tea trade via the Brahmaputra waterway that the British firm Braithwaite & Co. Ltd. constructed a 159-metre-long and 4.88-metre-wide iron bridge fitted with a lifting mechanism over the Dikhow River.
What made this engineering marvel unique was its functionality: whenever a British vessel approached through the heart of the Dikhow, the central section of the bridge could be elevated using a crane system, allowing the ship to pass seamlessly beneath, a rare blend of precision engineering and colonial ambition.
Signals from approaching ships would prompt guards to halt traffic, raise the midsection, and lower it once the vessel had passed. It was precision, performance, and poetry in motion.
A collaboration of hands and minds
Constructed using steel from British and Indian sources, including Tata Iron & Steel, the bridge employed then-innovative screw pile foundations and the “monkey dive” technique to anchor it firmly. At its helm was not just a British blueprint, but the hands and minds of Assamese craftsmen.
Notably, historian Lokendra Kumar Das records the contribution of Assamese engineer Hariprasad Barua, who supervised the construction. The first bridge guards were local men—Sarupai, Piyar Mohammad, Bolo Kalita, and a person from Bareghar Satra-who manned the posts with diligence. Toll collection, then a necessity, was modest: one rupee for motor cars, six annas for bullock carts, and just over an anna for a bicycle. Two locals, Jadunath Oja and Jogananda Barauh, were bestowed with the duty of toll collection.
An era forgotten
But progress, in its relentless march, has little patience for pause. A new RCC bridge beside the old structure was built, and by 2010, the Dikhow Bridge was closed to traffic, without a plan, without ceremony. Since then, the bridge has crumbled, unguarded and unwept. Termites have hollowed its timber, iron has bloomed into rust, and its proud mechanical heart is stilled.
Today, the bridge poses a danger. Yet no restoration, reinforcement, or reverence has arrived from either the government or the district authorities. As if waiting for nature or negligence to deliver its final verdict.
Between two futures
In a troubling turn, some local voices citing traffic congestion have sought the demolition of the bridge altogether. A memorandum to the Chief Minister even recommends dismantling it to make way for "modernisation."
In stark contrast, heritage activists, scholars, and citizens have taken to social media and civic campaigns to demand its preservation as a historical monument. They point toward shining examples across India: The 113-year-old Lord Curzon Bridge over the Yamuna in Prayagraj, now handed to the UP government for conservation. The Pamban Bridge in Tamil Nadu, connecting Rameswaram to the mainland, was preserved and modernised without destroying its past.
Chennai’s iconic Napier Bridge, rebuilt and restored multiple times since 1869, still stands tall and functional. These are not just bridges-they are anchors to history, symbols of continuity between past and present.
A call waiting for answer
And so the question lingers in the monsoon air: Will the government wake up to the Dikhow Bridge’s silent plea? Will ONGC, which has drawn resources from Sivasagar for over six decades, step up as a responsible stakeholder in heritage conservation? Or will this bridge-the only one of its kind in Assam with a functional lift span- fade into oblivion under layers of moss, rust, and forgetfulness? The Dikhow sighs. But it also endures. Whether it crumbles or is cherished is up to the authorities.
